He drew his palm down the lines of his tuxedo. While others dressed in modern couture, Nicolas had handpicked his outfit in Milan, a single-button Brioni cashmere jacket with a peaked lapel and shawl collar. It was classic and elegant, chosen because the Duke of Windsor had worn such suits in the 1930s and 1940s. It had a vintage look that melded with Nicolas’s rhetoric, but he had updated his appearance by replacing the traditional bow tie—which never looked good with his trimmed beard—with a silk pleated tie, accented by a diamond tack set in Russian silver.
Knowing how well he looked, he entered the ballroom.
New marble floors shone under the light of a dozen Baccarat crystal chandeliers, a charitable donation by the company for this event. Tables circled an empty dance floor. But the true dancing had already commenced. The crowd mingled and swirled in eddies of political power, vying for the right nod, a moment alone with the right potentate, a whispered deal.
Russia’s prime minister and the U.S. president created the largest pools. Each was vying for support in regard to how to handle sanctions against burgeoning nuclear threats. An important summit on the matter was scheduled in St. Petersburg after the ceremony here. The sealing of Chernobyl was the symbolic start of that meeting.
Nicolas stared over at the pair, surrounded by a sea of people. He intended to wade into those waters. With his growing popularity as the spokesman for nuclear reform, those seas would easily part for him.
He should at least shake the hands of the two men he planned to kill.
But before he waded into those waters, he headed over to Elena. She stood by one of the arched windows. Heavy silk drapery framed both the window and the woman. She cut a stately figure in a black dress that flowed like oil over her lithe form, a Hollywood matinee idol brought back to life. She carried a flute of champagne in one hand, as if forgotten. She faced the darkness beyond the window.
He joined her.
Beyond the ruins of the city, bright lights twinkled near the horizon. Work crews would labor throughout the night to ready the viewing stands and ensure that the installation of the new Sarcophagus over the shell of Chernobyl went smoothly. The eyes of the world would be on the event.
He touched her arm.
She was not startled, having noticed his reflection in the mirror.
His voluptuous Rasputin.
“It is almost over,” he said and leaned to her ear.
According to his man, the concussion charges had already been secured in place. Nothing could stop them.
8:40 P.M.
Punjab, India
Gunfire erupted before Gray could reach the edge of the village. Screams and shouts echoed. Helicopters thumped overhead. He flattened himself against a stone wall. Beyond the pair of garbage fires, the Mercedes SUV rested at the edge of the glow.
A soldier in black gear ran low across the open ground, assault rifle at his shoulder. Others had to be already solidifying positions around the village, locking the place down. Then they’d close in for the kill, sweeping through the maze of the village.
Gray knew the only hope for the villagers was for his team to flee, to draw off the hunters. They had to make their escape before the village was secured.
He stretched an arm back to Rosauro. “Keys.”
They were slapped into his hand, but Rosauro had more bad news. “Kowalski. Elizabeth. They’re not here.”
Gray glanced back. In the mad rush through the twisted alleys, he’d failed to notice. “Find them,” he ordered Rosauro. “Now.”
She nodded and dashed away.
Gray stared hard at Luca. “Guard the professor. Stay out of sight.”
The Gypsy nodded. Two daggers glinted in his fingers.
Gray could wait no longer.
Crouching low, he ran out of hiding and into the open.
Elizabeth fled with Kowalski down a crooked alley. A sewage trench lined one side, reeking and foul.
“Follow that,” she urged. “It has to lead out of here.”
Kowalski nodded and took the next corner. He had a pistol clenched in a meaty paw. She kept to his shoulder.
“Do you have another gun?” she asked.
“You shoot?”
“Skeet. In college.”
“Not much difference. Targets just scream a bit more.”
He reached under his jacket to the small of his back and slipped out a small blue steel Beretta and passed it blindly back to her.
Her fingers tightened hard on the grip, drawing strength from the cold steel.
They set off. The alleyway was deserted, but gunfire spat from the outskirts as villagers defended their homes and lives.
One of the helicopters swept low overhead. The wash from its rotors scattered leaves and bits of garbage. They ducked out of sight into a mud hut. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of children huddled behind a low cot.
After the helicopter flew past, Kowalski tugged her toward the door—but then piled back into her. A soldier in black dashed past the opening. The war must be moving into the village proper. Kowalski peeked out, waved for her, then led her back outside.
“We’ll strike for the hills,” he said.
They zigzagged through two more turns and reached a straight shot toward open hills. Bodies lay on the street ahead, blood sluicing into the sewage drain. At least one of them wore black camouflage. Kowalski kept close to one wall and hurried forward. He led with his pistol up.
A spat of automatic fire chattered beyond the village.
How would they get past that?
Kowalski paused at the soldier’s dead body. He tugged off the man’s helmet.
Maybe a disguise, Elizabeth thought. Not bad thinking.
But as Kowalski yanked, the soldier’s head came off with the helmet. Shocked and horrified, he fell back into her. Tangled, they both stumbled to the ground.
A dark shadow appeared behind them.
Another soldier.
She raised her pistol and shot wildly. The rounds cracked stones and ricocheted, missing the target but driving him back around the corner. Kowalski’s weapon blasted behind her, sounding like a cannon in the narrow alley. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw two more soldiers at the end of the street.
They were pinned down and outgunned.
Gray ducked out of the alley and into the open. He dove under the bullock cart that still stood by the pyres of burning garbage. Sliding on his stomach, he edged even with one of the fires. Shielded by the cart, he reached out to the edge of the bonfire. If the gunshots and helicopters didn’t spook the ox from its post, then Gray would have to light a fire under its tail.
Literally.
Snatching up a chunk of burning tire from the pyre’s edge, Gray flipped it into the oily pile of refuse still stacked atop the cart. It didn’t take long for the flames to catch and spread. With a burning branch in his other hand, he crawled fully under the cart and goosed the ox in the hind end.